


One Of These Days

by Starry_Emerald173



Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, Healer!Reader, snowpiercer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starry_Emerald173/pseuds/Starry_Emerald173
Summary: Seventeen years.Seventeen long years in the tail end, with so many things unsaid. The revolution and the past hanging over your heads - the things you never told him and the things he won't let go of.And then it all goes up in blood and smoke.Slight Canon-Divergence from the 2013 movie, female reader-insert
Relationships: Curtis Everett/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	1. The Beginning In The End

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, this is absolutely reader insert, slight-canon divergence so far (maybe more later if this thing spirals forward?) but if you haven’t seen the absolute gift of this gritty-sci-fi-human-horror movie yet, you definitely should! This fic popped into my head nearly fully formed and I had no choice but to write it up because I be a hoe for reader-inserts
> 
> Seriously, this movie is great, and not just because of the casting and the story and the - now admittedly dated- effects but the LIGHTING in this movie just...aghhh, it brings me such JOY...It is absolutely chef’s 😘😘😘

Gilliam smiled at you as you rolled the pant leg down over the end of his stump. “What would we do without you, y/n?”

“You say that like I do anything for you that no one else could do,” You responded, rolling your eyes. “It’s just tissue massage, Gilliam. You don’t need any kind of medical training to do it.”

“You have a gift, my dear. But I meant in the more general sense.” He amended as you packed up the small collection of items that made up your healer’s kit here in the tail section of the train. 

You shrugged. “Someone would’ve stepped into the gap.”

“We are lucky to have you.”

The statement made you uncomfortable, for many reasons. Luck wasn’t something that life in the tail-end had in spades and referring to it just seemed like throwing down a gauntlet to the universe.

Seventeen years of cramped, dirty, dank conditions. Seventeen years of knowing that it could always get worse - and often did.

Sometimes you wondered if the ones with the real luck had frozen to death outside.

“We were all lucky my mother was a vet before we got on the train.” You corrected as the curtain that separated Gilliam’s space - given in honor - from the rest of the crowded and stacked bunks was pushed aside. Luck wasn’t a word you liked, but what were the odds of a medic former marine and her teenage daughter making it onboard during the hell that had been boarding?

A thousand people in a tin can. One medic.

You shoved memories of the early years back into the metal box in your head where you kept them. It did no good to dwell on the past. Not here.

Gilliam harrumphed and you felt a smile break across your face at the grouchy noise. You’d been having this conversation for the last four years, since your mother had died in the reckoning after the McGregor Riots, and you’d probably have them for however long you lived.

You turned to face the curtain and jerked your thumb over your shoulder. “He’s all yours, boys.”

Edgar gave you a grin and ruffled your hair as he slid past you. “Thanks, darling.”

One of several train babies who were nearly grown, Edgar was one of your favorite people - cheeky though he was, and rash with decision making, he meant well enough. You’d watched him grow up, had rocked him to sleep and helped teach him his letters. Now he was nearly an adult by pre-train standards, and you couldn’t quite believe it. He still worshipped the man behind him though.

Curtis was larger, and the pass wasn’t nearly so spacious. You nearly fell as he moved past you, and felt his hands steady you. You both paused for a moment, heavy tension in the air that you never could quite ignore and you noticed there was blood at the corner of his mouth.

Your hands moved of their own accord, and you flushed as he pulled away.

He never let you tend to him like the others, and you both knew why.

It still hurt - almost physically, just beneath your collarbone - every time he pulled away from you, even though you knew the repudiation was completely one-sided.

“Try to keep him out of trouble,” You tossed over your shoulder.

“These hooligans?” Gilliam snorted.

“I was talking about you, old man,” You retorted before you closed the curtain behind you.

It wasn’t that the whole compartment didn’t know what they were talking about behind there that had you stepping away. It was the knowledge that the less you knew, the less risk there was. You were absolutely for a revolution - but as you’d told Gilliam more than once, compartmentalization of information would only help protect it while Curtis and Gilliam and a few select others whispered and planned and plotted.

There were few enough secrets in the tail end, including your own.

Life on the train was mercurial at the best of times, so why risk knowing something that could put the cause at risk?

You made it back to your bunk and found Tanya and Timmy playing a game with the severely battered deck of cards someone had fashioned out of scrap paper that had once been something else, and something else before that, and grinned at the young boy as he waved to you. “How are we doing today?”

As the unofficially designated medical personnel in the tail section, courtesy of your mother’s training pre-train and then learning by helping her on the train, you considered it not only a duty but a pleasure to check in with your smallest patients.

You weren’t supposed to have favorites. Medics needed to be impartial.

But Timmy was absolutely the reigning champ in that department.

He grinned up at you and showed you his cards proudly. “I’m gonna win.”

You and Tanya shared a laugh of amusement over that - she’d been trying to teach him poker for a little over a month now. You were almost certain she’d gotten most of the rules right, but what the hell did you know? You’d only been a kid yourself when you’d boarded the train, and honestly? You’d been far more interested in art than games.

“I think Doris’ cough is getting worse.” Tanya told you and you sighed.

Without medication, there wasn’t a lot you could do for the chronic cough. But with how tightly everyone was packed in, more than a few nights of a stricken cough could cause tempers to flare. 

“I’ll go see her right now. Thanks, Tanya.”

“You shouldn’t push y/n away.” Gilliam said sharply as you froze on the other side of the curtain.

You’d checked on Doris and realized you’d left the vial of lung-opening tincture in Gilliam’s space. The shit smelled utterly foul, but worked like a charm.

“Don’t go noticing things that aren’t any of your business, old timer.” Curtis’ reply was curt.

“What,” Edgar’s lyrical tones chimed in and you heard more than a little confusion mixed in with the teasing. “Exactly are you waiting for Curtis? You barely even speak to her, but it’s pretty obvious there’s…” You could picture the younger man looking to Gilliam for help.

“Tension?” Gilliam offered, the smile evident in his voice. “Attraction? Nauseatingly, blindingly obvious desire?”

“That. How long do you expect her to wait for you to, you know, say something? Or better yet,” He added. “Do something. We all know the time’s coming when we’ll leave for the front - and life is too short for this shite.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gilliam’s snort and Edgar’s laugh mixed.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” Gilliam said mournfully.

“I’m thirty-four years old.” Curtis pointed out. “I’m not exactly a child, Gilliam.”

“Even more reason.”

“I think it’s all the brooding,” Edgar reasoned speculatively. “It must mess with his head.”

You heard something get thrown and Edgar yelped.

“Seriously, man,” Edgar continued. “How long do you expect everyone to wait for you two to make up your minds? You’ve been mooning over each other all of my life - I literally don’t know what it’d be like to not watch you two step around each other. I don’t understand it.”

You felt your heart sink a little, because you  _ did _ understand it.

Curtis was going to be Gilliam’s heir - hell, he already _ was _ . Gilliam had, over the last few years, begun the transition towards valued elder and everyone knew it except Curtis.

The guilt he carried around with him like that heavy coat was a helluva blindspot.

Curtis really didn't believe he was a good man.

And you might be a healer - by training and inclination - but it wasn’t your job to try and heal someone who wanted to hold on to the past that tightly. Not when the now was so short and so uncertain.

Besides, if the front ever figured out someone with medical skills was back here, you knew your whole world would be ripped away from you. It was better to not have personal attachments.

It was also why you had three apprentices in training - you wouldn’t leave your people helpless if you could help it.

“Look,” Curtis sighed. “We have actual work to do. Let’s leave y/n out of it.”

You backed away slowly, silently, and then re-approached, making enough noise to clearly signal your approach. “Hey Gilliam,” You called as you shoved aside the curtain. “I think I left something…” 

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing at the guilty looks on all three of their faces. “Am I interrupting something?”


	2. The Lighting Is Never Quite Right

It was morning when you heard the ruckus, people grumbling and shouting as someone shoved their way through the knot of people, shouting your name.

You groaned and pulled your hat down over your eyes, denying reality. You’d been up for three days straight, combating a fever that had threatened to spread - and if it did, the toll would’ve been high. Close quarters, limited clean water, virtually no ventilation...it was a recipe for a fucking nightmare if it got going under these conditions.

But the last of the fevers had broken in the wee hours and you’d stumbled to your bunk with one of your apprentices swearing to wake you the second anything changed.

And now someone was shouting your name, even as you recognized the sounds of growing discontent from the front of the car.

“They know! Y/n! They know!” Gray reached you, panting and out of breath. “Someone told them, or they figured it out. The guards are coming and they’re looking for you.”

“Me, or the healer?” You asked, sliding out of your bunk the second your shoes were on as the tail-enders moved towards the front of the car, crowding to buy you time. 

“You, the healer.” Gray’s words sank in your stomach.   
“Thank you for letting me know.” You blinked rapidly. You grabbed your kit, pressed it into his hands. “You hold on to this, okay? Keep it safe?” You waited for him to nod and smiled. “Thanks, Gray.”

The tail-enders were protesting by the time you reached the front of the car.

“What are you doing here?” Edgar hissed, pulling you back by the arm. “They’re looking for you.”

“I know.” You jerked your head towards the door. “Do you really want to give them an excuse to rip apart the car? Find everything? It’ll crush your revolution before it starts, and a lot of people will get hurt.”

Curtis’ shadow blocked the light as he stepped in front of you. “Jesus, y/n. If they see you it’s going to spark into a riot.”

“I’ve trained Gray and Eden and Darcy as best I can. You can’t afford to protect me, Curtis.” You saw the knowledge, the strategic understanding cross his face, saw it clash against stubborn will. Your hand pressed against his chest, trying to ignore the heat under your palm, or the way his eyes darkened. “Look, medical skills are valuable. They aren’t going to kill me. And you’ll have another set of eyes at the front of the train. I might be able to do you some good from up there.” The heat of his eyes and the heat of his body were making you flush so you pulled your hand away, started as he grabbed at it, holding you there.

“You sure about this?” Curtis asked, even as Edgar protested.

“There isn’t a choice. If they come back here, the car will riot. If I go with them, peacefully, you still have time.” You met his eyes, held his gaze. Knew the regret you saw there would stick with you. “You have to let me go, Curtis.”

And he did.

You made your way forward, trying to calm those around you here and there with a quiet word, a soft touch. It quelled the worst of the anger - the spark that could set the whole tail end ablaze and with it, the hope for a better way.

You wouldn’t look back, you promised yourself as one of the guards took you by the arm. You would not do it...you would not...you would…

Even as you were moving through the first gate into the quarantine car, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back at the only world you’d known for the better part of two decades.

Gray was there, Edgar holding him back. He held up your kit when he saw you looking, and you gave him what you hoped was a reassuring nod.

Edgar still looked like he wanted to drag you back into the tail end and damn the consequences.

And Curtis?

Curtis was staring. Not moving, not blinking. Just staring, as if he was trying to memorize your face.

Which was fair, because you were certainly doing the same thing, even as the gate began to shut behind you.

You held that cobalt gaze til the very last second.

And then you were on your own.


	3. Revolt

_ Several Weeks Later _

“We easily outnumber their bullets.” Curtis heard Edgar’s words, gaze fixed on the guards, but it was as if from a distance as he drew in slow, steady breaths. Not yet, not yet...Almost...

They were out of time - the ram was right there, the tail-enders as ready as they were going to be. It was the moment.

He blinked, saw your face, turning back to look at him one more time, eyes wide and a little frightened, despite your words.

He hoped like hell you were somewhere up in the front.

He hoped you were okay.

He hoped he got to see you again.

Even while his brain argued with his feelings over the futility and danger of hope, he still did.

He saw your face again every time he closed his eyes, and it burned in his gut, knowing he had

let you go and not having heard anything since. Not even from their red letter informant.

“We’re out of time, we gotta do it now.” Edgar urged as his eyes opened again.

Now.

And then Curtis was moving, moving fast, to the front of the crowd, grabbing the end of the rifle and pressing it against his forehead, finger reaching for the trigger...if he was wrong...if he was wrong this would be over before it started, but at least only he would pay the price for it...he pulled it and it clicked dully.

Empty.

The car exploded into chaos.

“Hurry up, Edgar.” Curtis snapped.

They’d done it - they’d taken the first three cars and were crowded around the cell of one Namgoong Minsu, hoping the security specialist and Kronole addict had enough of a brain left to guide them forward through the next round of gates.

It all hinged on this.

If they couldn’t get the man in this cell to help them, they were all fucked.

“Hurry up?” Edgar’s voice was incredulous as he held up the full ring of keys. “So sorry to keep you all waiting. Obviously I work here so...”

Curtis shifted, eyes drifting away from Edgar and Namgoong Minsu’s cell, resting on the dozens of cells that lined the prison car. They didn’t have time now - had to act on the element of surprise - but Curtis knew that they would have to free them all. No way did he trust in the skewed sense of justice enforced by the guards or preached by Mason. 

And then his eyes landed on your name as Edgar found the right key and slid the tray open.

“Keys.” He snapped, not caring how Edgar glanced at him in surprise. “Give me the fucking keys, Edgar.”

Edgar tossed them over as the others shifted and moved to make room.

Tanya let out a quiet gasp when she read the name on the tag as he fumbled with the ring of keys.

His hands were shaking so badly it took him three tries to try the first key. He nearly dropped the key ring on the second key. The fourth key worked and the cell slid open, rolling the drawer out with your unconscious body curled on its side.

He literally couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like a block of concrete.

“Y/n!” Gray was there, his hands checking you for injuries, no, Curtis realized as those deadly and nimble fingers paused at your throat. He was looking for a  _ pulse _ .

Gray’s frame released all its tension at the same moment your eyes fluttered open and the young man collapsed over you, half hugging you, half sobbing as your arms came around him.

Air flooded into his lungs with a harsh inhale and Curtis realized he was going a little lightheaded.

“Gray?” You asked, eyes blinking against the harsh lights.

He’d never been so happy to see y/e/c in his life, Curtis realized as Edgar whooped and pulled you upright for his own bone-crushing hug.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Edgar grinned. “What’re you doing here? Nice duds,” He added, and Curtis realized you were wearing a thin-strapped shift and not a lot else. Had the guards expected you to survive dressed like that? It was too cold this far back on the train. He was pulling his coat off, then the top two layers of shirts, before anyone had time to comment.

You took the shirts from him without looking at him and it made his belly jump, the way your gaze skittered away from him, even as the ragged cheer of victory and surprise rolled through the wave of tail enders who were crowding the prison car.

“Jesus wept,” Edgar’s laugh was watery. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so fucking happy to see you.”

“Not…” You licked lips that were chapped, your voice hoarse and rasping as you squeezed Gray’s hand in your own. “Not even when you broke your arm rolling over the barrels on that board?”

Curtis hated how it sounded, hated that it wasn’t your usual voice, but a harsher, harder one. Almost as much as he hated the fact that he couldn’t make himself reach forward and haul you against him, while every cell in his body screamed at him to do so.

“Not even.” Edgar gave you another squeeze. “I thought medical skills were too valuable? How’d you end up here? How long have you been here?”

Gray moved back enough to let you swing your legs around and gingerly hop down and Curtis felt his eyes narrow at the clumsy motion of your limbs. As Edgar rolled the cell tray back in, shutting the door, Curtis let his eyes drift to the rest of the tag, most importantly the date of incarceration.

Blinked in surprise, even as Tanya read it out loud.

“Six weeks? For stabbing a guard...” She raised her eyebrows so high they looked like they were about to vanish into her hairline.

“Six fucking weeks,” Edgar whistled. “What’d you do, stab him the minute you left the tail?”

“Close.” You croaked, steadying, though you had a death grip on Gray’s arm. “Two days. Fucker tried to…” You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t kill you.” Tanya admitted.

You shot her a small smile. “Medical skills  _ are _ too valuable, even if they come attached to a crazy tail-ender. Easier to lock me in a box til I broke than explain the waste of resources to Mason.” Your eyes met his now, even as Curtis wondered what the fuck Mason had to do with this. “Wilfred’s dying.”

Your statement was met with shock, a wave that rippled through the car as you shivered.

Gray took off his coat - the boy ran too hot - and draped it around you.

It killed him, but Curtis had to keep them moving forward now, before they lost the momentum of having taken the prison car. There would be time, he decided, to ask you about what you had learned. Not much, but enough.

“Gray, keep her back with Gilliam.” He would  _ not _ grab you close for his own hug. You looked like you were about to fall over, and they still had a revolution to lead. Either they took the train, or the guards would regroup and then so many tail enders would die. Forward was the only way. And that was only if they could get this security specialist to agree to open the gates.

“C’mon, y/n.” Tanya helped Gray move you back, move you away and as you glanced over your shoulder at him, Curtis felt his jaw clench as he battled the urge to just hold you.

Instead, he squared his shoulders and let you go for the second time, facing the clearly groggy Namgoong.

“Are you Namgoong Minsu?”


	4. Yekaterina

“You said Wilfred is dying?” Gilliam asked as you shivered miserably.

You were waiting for Nam to open the next gate - you’d categorically refused to go back to the tail. Not when it was clear that your skills were going to be needed at some point. So here you sat, sandwiched between Gray and Gilliam, shaking as your body tried to create more warmth under Curtis’ shirts and Gray’s coat. You could hear Edgar bitching at Nam to hurry it up from up ahead, hear Nam’s voice responding. The tone was clear, even if the words weren’t.

Curtis was crouched near the gate, talking with the young woman Nam had insisted they free - his daughter, Yona. She didn’t look old enough to have been part of the boarding, so you were guessing she was a train baby.

He hadn’t so much as looked at you after the prison car.

You couldn’t quite stop looking at him.

It was as if your brain refused to stop, drinking in the sight of him after so much time away. He looked the same, and yet...there was a harshness, a hardness there now. More than just life in the tail-end kind of hard.

It was like a splinter that you just couldn’t get out, something digging at you every time your eyes slid over him.

What had happened in the six weeks you’d been gone? Had things gotten worse in the tail end?

“Y/n?” Gilliam prompted, looking disturbed.

“Yes. Slowly. But he is. Multi-system organ failure. And the doctors in the front...they don’t know how to do medicine with half their supplies going extinct. They figured a tail-ender might be more...creative.” You shuddered, remembering your not-short-enough interactions with Wilfred. On a fundamental level, he’d disturbed you, despite - or maybe because of - his solicitous attitude.

You didn’t have words for the front end. Gaudy. Overdone. Wasteful.

You and yours lived in inhuman conditions while they had...sushi? Schools? Parties? If you hadn’t already been rooting for the revolution, you would have been by the time you reached the medical car. Seeing the clean, well-kept rooms had put a fine bladed edge on your anger, and you’d been forced to choke on it for two whole days.

That guard trying to assault you had been a blessing in disguise because you would have snapped sooner or later, and at least shanking a would-be-rapist had bought you  _ some  _ leniency.

You heard an alarmed shout from the front of the car - Yona’s voice raised in fear - and the next gate opened.

To reveal a full car of armed guards.

“Curtis,” You whispered, pulse jumping, knowing full well he couldn’t hear you.

“He’ll be alright.” Gilliam told you. “Gray, go.”

You watched your sometimes apprentice join the crowd moving forward into the train.

It didn’t matter that he was a skilled killer - in part thanks to your lessons - your heart still clenched at the thought of him and Edgar and all the other tail enders…

“Focus on me, y/n.” Gilliam tried to distract you as sounds of combat echoed down the corridor of the car. “Curtis will be fine. So will Gray.”

You nodded, but you couldn’t quite make yourself believe it.

The aftermath of the battle of the Yekaterina bridge and tunnel was horrible.

You moved through it, trying to help who you could, trying not to cry as you passed bodies of friends. Some things you could fix. Most things you couldn’t.

But seeing Curtis and Gilliam sitting on the floor next to Edgar’s body was the worst of it.

No more insults in that lilting tongue. No more cheeky stunts, or quippy digs. Just those eyes staring sightlessly until Gilliam reached down and closed them.

“Survivors,” Gilliam called. “Wash yourselves. Wash away the blood.”

Your eyes watered, and even as you saw Gray - alive and well thank god - moving to the water car to wash the blood off his arms, your legs gave out and you sat where you fell, crying softly among the dead.


	5. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the quiet of the aftermath...

“You’re a healer. We need you here.”

It was night now, and the tail-enders were asleep, exhausted by the day.  _ You _ were exhausted by the day, but you’d needed to tell Curtis and Gilliam what little you’d been able to learn in two days, and now you were barely awake, leaning against the wall and listening to them strategize about tomorrow when you’d caught Curtis’ comment tossed in your direction.

It was the right call. You knew it was the right call. But having tended to the wounded, having sat with Gilliam next to Edgar’s cooling body, it felt wrong.

Your family was dying. Hurting. Splitting it up felt...just felt wrong.

“You think you won’t need me on the way to the front?” You asked, tucking your hands further into the sleeves of your sweater.

“I know we’ll need you after we take the front.” He corrected. “I can move faster with a smaller group. Take the front, then send for you and call for Gilliam to lead us.”

“Stop it, Curtis.” Gilliam’s voice was soft, but no less scolding. “Why are you doing that? You know very well that you’re already our leader. You have to accept that now.”

Curtis shook his head, looking downwards. “How can I lead if I have two good arms?”

And there it was - that massive, ugly, foundational crack in Curtis’ psyche. The past, seventeen years gone and over and still...still he blamed himself, still hated himself. You could see it in the line of his body, even as Gilliam reached over with his hooked hand and drew back the shirt sleeve on Curtis’ right arm.

“It’s faded a lot.” Gilliam said, and you heard benediction, forgiveness in the quiet observance.

Curtis pushed the sleeve back down, and you knew he hadn’t heard the same thing as you.

“Better to have both arms.” Gilliam shrugged. “You can’t do a lot with one with one, you know? Especially when you hold a woman.”

Curtis didn’t look at you.

This. This here was the crux of all the stepping-around, backing away, keeping careful distance two-step that had made up the last seventeen years of your...well, you weren’t quite sure what to call it.

You rolled over, on to your side and tried to block out the rest of their conversation, knew they’d lowered their voices even more in the dark of the car.

Seventeen years ago, the tail end had been hell.

A thousand people. No supplies, no food, no water.

You’d all done things to survive the first few months, things that you couldn’t undo, couldn’t take back. Couldn’t, as your mother once said, paraphrasing a preacher she’d heard, wash the stain from your soul.

And Curtis? Curtis tried to carry the weight of that time on his own two shoulders. Dragged it around with him like that great heavy coat. Took it on himself, and refused to see that all of you had done terrible things in those dark and early days of the train.

And with you it was worse.

Because your mother had held that moral line. Had held it as long and sharply as she could. She’d backed Gilliam’s play - had nursed the baby Edgar through those first few months. Had done her best to save as many lives as possible from disease and starvation, and when starvation came, she made sure those who had sacrificed limbs did so with minimal pain and infection.

You’d learned to close stitches on amputations instead of learning to drive a car because you'd worked alongside her. Had learned how to reach inside a leg and pinch an artery shut long enough for her to stitch it, or cauterize it, or when to let the artery go and give as painless a death as possible instead of lingering on for days, weeks even with the smell of gangrene and rot eating away at the limb.

Curtis saw you in opposition to himself - he put you on a pedestal. Always there, always out of reach. Deep down, he really believed he was irredeemable.

Two years in and while life was still hard in the tail end - god, it was hard - it wasn’t hell anymore. Wasn’t screams and cries in the night. Wasn’t people tearing each other apart for food or water or clothing.

You weren’t a child anymore, and it was only human to seek comfort in the arms of another human and no one drew you the way Curtis did. No one made your blood rush, heart pound.

A chemical attraction, your mother had cautioned. Let it burn out.

But you were impatient, and you were in some ways still so young.

The first time you’d kissed him, he’d frozen like marble under your hands, warm marble that melted after only a moment and he’d made you feel...you didn’t have words for the feeling of his hands on your body, even clothed, or his lips against yours. And when you’d broken apart, those slate blue eyes had looked at you like you were a goddamn sunrise in the pits of the underworld. Like you were the first spring flowers, the rising stars at night.

You would have done a lot of things to see that look on his face again.

But then those eyes had shuttered, and he’d stepped away from you, pulled his hands back and all but fled, leaving you there tracing the imprint of his lips on yours.

Three women fell pregnant that year - none of them lived, and you set aside desire in the aftermath of it all. Simple pleasure, kissing, petting, using your own fingers when the need became too much. But only picturing one face, one body when you did, and knowing it was unfair to any partners you found comfort with, which left you alone until you felt like your skin would rupture and you would take a lover just to satisfy the need. It made you think of potato chips - back in the days of before; cheap, easily consumed, empty actions.

Curtis would always manage to avoid you for a few days after that.

It would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

Because you knew too that he found comfort in the dark from time to time with others.

“...Wilford’s behind that.” You heard Gilliam say as your brain finally sank into sleep. “Don’t let Wilford talk. Cut out his tongue.”


	6. Retaliation

The next day sees you standing at Gilliam’s side as Curtis, Tanya, Andrew, and Gray head for the front, Mason in chains as the Painter captures the last few details in his sketches and some of the tail enders chuckle as Andrew places the shoe on Minister Mason’s head.

You hate the woman - maybe more than you hate this goddamn train, and Wilford. The slimy, slippery, wheedling self serving worm who used and discarded religious rhetoric the moment Curtis and Gilliam questioned her last night.

Honestly, you’re pretty sure Curtis should have just cut her throat last night.

There’s something altogether too pleased in the corners of her eyes as the team moving forward makes final preparations.

You can’t help but feel like it’s the last time you’ll see any of them.

As Curtis turns to go, you catch his eye and for just a moment, just one, you see your own foreboding reflecting back at you. That certainty, that dread, that something else is still to come and it won’t be good and it’s inevitable.

And then the gate opens and they’re moving forward.

Leaving you behind.

Again.

You know something’s wrong when the eggs arrive.

Wilford isn’t benevolent as they teach the front end children. He isn’t kind or merciful or just as Minister Mason’s homilies try to convince you all. 

Wilford is smart and cruel and clever and absolutely believes in retribution, which is why you’re already moving as the wagon stops at the front of the car and the man pushing it smiles with the kind of fake pleasure you’ve come to associate with those at the head of the train.

“I thought the chicken was extinct.” Painter says, with more reverence than you’d heard in churches before the freeze.

“There are actually many things on board that are rumored to have been extinct.” The delivery man’s voice is sibilant, and it sets your instincts to screaming as he moves, serpentine and sideways - playacting at subservience with eyes cold as winter’s bite in the tail end.

“Such as?” Painter asks, and Snake Eyes holds up a finger to say ‘wait’ as he sorts through the wagon of eggs for something.

“This.” And there’s no time, no time to flee, no time for horror as he fires into the tail enders, guards pouring from the doorway behind him. The tail-enders at the back run for the tail section even as the first wave falls and still the guards are firing.

A bullet catches you in the leg, Gilliam crying out as he tried to pull you to the side, out of the way of the fleeing crowd, even as the guards chased them down, driving the panicked bodies back, back to the tail end.

Snake Eyes smiles now, like he’s enjoying this, moving from body to body with quick bursts of shots, finishing the kill.

And then he’s standing in front of you as you try to block Gilliam’s body behind your own even as your leg threatens to go out from under you. His head cocks to the side, evaluating, and you shiver because what stares at you isn’t human.

“The little healer,” He says finally, in a voice that sounds like a hiss, and you can tell he’s amused by you. “And the old man.”

A passing guard snaps his weapon up at the two of you, and Snake Eyes raises a hand and gently pushes the barrel down. 

“Not these two. Franko the elder has his orders, and so do we.”

The school room creeped Curtis out before the teacher pulled a semi automatic weapon on them and killed Andrew. With their sing-song cries of “We all freeze and die!” and primary colors and propagandist education…He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the front, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Now, standing in the middle of the carnage, chest heaving as the screens overhead chime to show the water supply car, he can hear his own heartbeat louder than the brakes on the train as Franko the Elder smiled up at the camera in grainy black and white.

There are bodies on the floor, at the edge of the camera frame.

They aren’t moving.

“No,” Gray breathed as Gilliam was shoved to his knees in the frame of the camera. “No…”

The trigger is pulled before he can blink, Gilliam’s head snapping away, body dropping like a puppet with its strings cut.

He can’t look away. Can’t tear his eyes from the screen.

Gilliam is gone.

Just like that.

He keeps hoping if he stares at the body long enough, it - he’ll - move. It’ll be some kind of fucked up joke the universe is playing.

It’s the only reason he sees that damn silky slip in the upper corner, barely in frame, pulled back to expose a bloody leg at an awkward angle and he feels...oh god, he feels like the air just got sucked out of the room as everything in him focuses on that leg, willing it to move, twitch, something  _ goddamn it _ as he recognizes your well worn boot, smeared in liquid even black and white can’t disguise as anything other than blood.

But as Franko the Elder just stares into the camera lens like the motherfucking psychopath he is, your leg doesn’t move. Not a kick, not a twitch, nothing.

He’s moving before he even realizes it, before he really hears Tanya’s voice telling him he has to lead. His hand is around the gun before he has a chance to think, and it’s pointed at Mason who is blabbering whatever pathetic lies the Minister thinks will save her from a hail of bullets and he doesn’t care anymore.

How many tail enders dead?

Gilliam.

You.

“We go forward.” The entire world narrowed down to one, and only one thought - to make Wilford pay.


	7. Caught in Undertow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello my lovelies! I’m procrastinating on another WIP at the moment, so enjoy the fruits of my dysfunction...Also, sorry it’s been so long!
> 
> Obviously, things are going to get less canon-compliant as we go from here on in. My brain is telling me to continue the story up to and maybe do a second work/part past the crash but we’ll see how motivated I can stay.
> 
> Also, tiny bit of fix it fiction because for having like almost no goddamn screen-time, Gray has stolen my grinch-like heart and I just can’t kill him AND Edgar. Okay, that’s a lie - I could but I don’t want to 😝

You’d fallen in Gilliam’s blood and it had smeared, wet and warm across your skin as Franko dragged you to the next car. You could feel it there still - a cooling, tacky weight sticking the skirt of the slip to your leg, and the sock of the same leg - as you limped along, arm held firmly by one of Franko’s guards.

One car later, your leg gave out completely and Franko had one of the guards toss you over his shoulder like an undignified lump. Between the last few minutes and blood loss, you really didn’t have the strength to protest.

You couldn’t stop seeing Gilliam’s death.

His execution.

You saw it in between blinks, burned on the backs of your eyelids between bounces over the guard’s shoulder. Saw the acceptance in Gilliam’s body as Franko pushed him to the center of the car, in view of the cameras. Saw Snake Eyes’ delight when he hit you to keep you down, the blow knocking you stunned. Watching, eyes so wide it hurt, as the muzzle of the gun came up, went off, and Gilliam dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

How were you ever going to stop seeing that?

“Take her to medical.” Franko ordered. “Let them patch her up, then bring her to Wilford.”

You let the ebb of pain in your body take you under.

Maybe this time you wouldn’t have to wake up.

Pain was the first thing you felt when you came back to consciousness and strong arms held you down while someone stabbed at your leg.

“Get the anesthetic.” You recognized one of the medics from your sojourn of a few weeks ago, peering down at you. “I need her to stay still to finish the stitches.”

The thought of being drugged, being helpless, is enough to shudder you the rest of the way awake.

“No drugs.” Your voice wavers as you prop yourself up on your elbows and the room tips precariously. You shut your eyes tightly, take a breath, open them again. “No. Drugs. I’ll keep still.”

The doctor held your gaze. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The stitches aren’t fun and the medical team keeps looking at you like you’re some kind of freak and you want to laugh. What did they think happened in the tail-end? There weren’t painkillers, let alone anesthetics. 

Finally they tie off the last stitch, slap an adhesive bandage over your thigh and your personal escorts half-carry you out the door.

You keep going over it in your mind - Snake eyes’ sibilant voice as he called you ‘little doctor’, Franko shooting Gilliam. Orders. The word bounced around the inside of your mind even as one of the guards, tired of you limping along, scooped you up in both arms.

Orders from Wilford, obviously.

But to what end?

Why not kill you along with the rest? Why not kill you like Gilliam, on display? It would’ve been crippling for the tail-enders, a one-two punch that would strip them of hope and fight.

You might be more creative than the medical team here in the front, but  _ that _ valuable?

There’s something else at play here.

You didn’t know what the hell it was, but it was there.

It was like a sore tooth, but you had no way to fix it - to reveal that information teasing you, just out of reach…

The smell of steam and blood assaulted your nose as you passed through the next car, and the secondary guards circled to the front, hands on guns as they passed the first set of bodies.

You recognized some of them and tried to swing your legs down, nearly capsizing the guard who’d been acting as your personal carrier. “Put me down!”   
“I have orders.”

“Let me check them. Please. Please, I won’t resist or anything - just let me see if I can save any of them.”

“Alright. But you start with the guards.”

You nodded and let him set your feet on the floor. It pained you, and you had to use his arm as a crutch as you moved to kneel next to the first guard, fingers searching for a pulse, a breath, any sign of life.

Gone.

Your fingers moved to the pulse point of the second. Gone too.

The guard had to help you back to your feet.

Tonya was gone, and another guard, and a front ender.

Your fingers trembled over Franko’s pulse point.

It was small comfort that the guards all jumped as much as you when his eyes snapped open and his hand seized your wrist.

“He needs help.” You told the guards. “I can’t...I don’t…”

One of the guards intervened, dropping to a knee beside the two of you and pulling out a medical kit that you would have sold a limb - or maybe two - for in the tail end.

It took more than a few minutes, but finally two of the guards helped Franko to his feet, staggering upright like he’d drunk too much ‘shine and a low gasp had your eyes moving to the wall where a familiar body was slumped.

“Gray?” Oh god, oh god no. Not him too. 

You hadn’t realized you’d moved until your fingers moved across his face, those eyes clouded with pain and confusion as they latched on to your face.

“He’s a goner.” Franko said, already moving forward. “Wilford’s waiting.”

“Let me try.” You pleaded, hands already moving, assessing. You shot him up with one of the painkiller shots and watched Gray’s head roll down towards his chest in a mix between relief and exhaustion. “I can’t...I can’t leave him here. Whatever Wilford’s planning...I won’t resist. I won’t fight.” You promised as you dragged the medical kit next to Gray’s body. “But you have to let me save Gray.”

“Tail enders.” Franko grunts, and you don’t even feel your temper spike with the dismissiveness of his tone because he’s going to give you what you want - you can see it in the way he’s using the wall to support himself. “Fine. But make it quick. And I’ll hold you to that promise.”

“Hey Gray,” You speak low, soft as you go to work. “You’re a mess, baby.”

“ ‘M no’ a baby.” He slurs and you smile because it’s such a teenage boy response it can’t be helped, despite an impressive amount of damage. “You...y/n, you’re here?”

“I’m here.” There’s a stab wound all the way through his hand, a broken arm, broken nose...Jesus...Your hand trembles even as you take stock and start to do what you can. This might be beyond you…

Ruthlessly, you shove down your doubt and get moving.

It isn’t quick. It’s very messy. At one point you have to ask one of the guards to hold Gray still as you use a laser tool to cauterize a particularly nasty wound under his clavicle. While Gray is panting through the pain, the smell of burning flesh still fresh in the air, you wrap his palm with gauze and wrap, having already done your best to reset the bone break with an air-inflating cast - you definitely would have sold your soul for something like this in the tail end - and gauging the ashy-gray color of his skin, reach for another dose of painkiller.

Franko stops you. “No. Enough. Get her up.”

One of the guards wrenches you to your feet, even as you protest. “I can’t just…”

“No resisting.” Franko reminds you before examining the mulish set of your lips. “Fine. Hobbes, take that one back to medical. No more painkillers for tail end scum though, understood?”

The guard - Hobbes - nods.

And then you’re all moving forward again.

The train had blurred into one long tunnel of noise and sound after the steam room.

Curtis could hear the music in the club car music pumping, feel it pounding through him, but it was as if it was coming from somewhere far, far away.

Nam and Yona were stealing booze and more kronole - that damn kronole - but his world had narrowed to a thin line - the path to the front.

He was going to get to that last door, the one Gilliam had told him about and he was going to do so much more than cut out Wilford’s tongue.


	8. Over the Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Sorry it’s been so long, lovelies. Moving into the canon-divergence pool this chapter.

The cars are in chaos - Franko and his guards resorting to brute force at certain points to push through throngs of people beginning to turn towards a mob. Between the steady throb in your leg and the rising tide of unrest, you’re almost glad for the armed escort.

You make it to the Bridge, and it feels like stepping over a threshold - a point of no return.

Yona and Nam are there, eyes wide as Franko has the guards corner them.

“I’ll deal with you later.” He promises, eyeing Yona.

You see her shiver under that reptilian gaze and can’t fault her for it as the great door opens and Claude appears, like a short but no less angry dragon in a yellow robe guarding the door to Wilford’s lair.

Her eyes move over you and you can tell she’s not any more impressed than she was during your initial meeting.

You raise your chin because you might be bloody and tired and looking like the tail ender you are, but you’ll be damned before you let this soft, psycho front-end bitch look down her nose at you like that. You take a measure of joy that she looks away first.

“He’s been waiting for you.” The words are directed at Franko, chiding.

Franko scoffs. “I got her here, didn’t I?”

Right, you think, because he totally wouldn’t have bled out in the steam room if it weren’t for you...Nah, not at all.

Claude actually rolls her eyes and you share a moment of total accord as she catches your own barely-repressed expression. “Yes. I’m sure he’ll give you a cookie. Inside, please.” She motions you with the business end of a gun, and pride or not, you’ve already got one gun-induced injury and it’s enough.

You follow her inside.

The quiet is what hits you first.

It isn't silence. There’s  _ noise  _ \- the sound of machinery, a quiet hum, and voices - both familiar. One is clipped, angry. The other is a drawl that sets your teeth on edge. But so low you can't make out the distinct words.

But there’s no constant thrum of people, nothing like the heavy assault of sound that had become the background noise of your entire existence over the last seventeen years. No vibrations thudding beneath your feet. No breaths, no coughs, no shouts of your fellow passengers. All the noises, great and small...It was like someone had stuffed cotton into your ears so tightly, or like being underwater.

Every surface shone, practically sparkling, under a light so white and clean and bright it nearly hurt. It paints the dirt and grime and blood in stark contrast.

Surreal, you think. That's the word to describe it. Surreal.

“Ah!” Wilford’s voice draws your attention to the long table Claude is urging you closer to. “Franko has brought us that guest I mentioned. I believe you two know each other?”

The anger on Curtis’ face lasts only as long as it takes for him to turn his head. The color - oh, he was _pissed_ \- drained from him so fast. Even under all that stubble and blood, he was white with shock. “Y/n...”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for not spoiling the surprise, my boy.” You would love nothing more than to wipe the smug, self-satisfied smile off Wilford’s face with your fist as he gestures for you to take a seat at the table, halfway between the two men. “Indulge an old man his theatrics.”

You’re fairly certain Curtis hasn’t heard a word Wilford just said.

He’s staring at you. Like you’re a ghost. That stubbled jaw is even dropped a little.

It should be comical. You've never seen him genuinely speechless.

It  _ is _ comical, and suddenly you have to choke back the absurd giggle that threatens to bubble up and spill out of you. It seems wildly inappropriate to laugh, but that just makes it even funnier until you just can’t help it - the laughter rolls from your lips stealing the air from your lungs until your eyes are watering.

“Sorry,” You manage to gasp, finally getting your breath back. “It’s been a long day. Sorry.”

Wilford gapes at you for a solid minute, and then, like someone has pressed ‘play’ slides back into the jovial old-man facade. “I bet it has. I. Bet. It. Has.” He slices and stabs the food on his plate with emphasis. “Eat, please. You have to be hungry. Both of you.”

“You’re okay.” Curtis’ voice is low as Wilford continues eating with gusto. The tone is sure, but there’s a question in his eyes because he can’t afford for Wilford - with whatever angle he’s lining up - to see him shaken. Even now, he's pulling himself back together, half-watching you and half-watching Wilford, and you don't doubt that he's aware of Claude and Franco too.

“I’m okay. Gray…”

His eyes darken with grief. “I’m sorry, y/n. I couldn’t...I couldn’t save him. But he saved me.”

“He’s alive. Or, well, he was.” 

“It’s a day for resurrections.” Wilford chortles, and then again when both of you turn simultaneous glares on him. “I’m starting to get an idea of what Gilliam meant now.”

“Gilliam?” You look between the two men when the silence begins to grow. “Curtis, what is he talking about?”

Your stomach sinks as Curtis looks away from you.

“Shall you tell her, Curtis, or shall I?” Wilford barely waits for a response and sweet Jesus, if Claude wasn’t holding a gun on you, you’d shank the showboating asshole with that fucking steak knife he’s waving around. “Gilliam and I worked together. Half this damn rebellion was his plan.”

“Why would you…” It hits you before you can even finish the sentence and Wilford nods at you as he eats the last of his steak. 

“Smart girl. Knew you’d put it together.”

“I’m sorry,” You snap. “I was trying to listen to your condescension but the half-masticated dead cow in your mouth is a little distracting.”

Franko’s hand clamps down painfully tight on your shoulder, only to release a moment later as Wilford shakes his head in a clear dismissal.

“Population control.” You spit the words. “That’s what this was all about?”

“Well,” Wilford leans back in his chair. “Not  _ all _ . It’s also about succession. I’m old, and I’m dying, but the engine...the engine is eternal. The engine must be maintained.” He nods at Curtis. "I want Curtis to take my station." He shifts the conversation now, leaning forward, eagerly bracing himself against the table as he stares at Curtis. "There's something I want to show you."


	9. The Engine Eternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the line...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Well, shit, this wrote itself during my writer's meetup this morning instead of my plot outline for my personal project...Oh well 🤷 Thanks as always for reading!

Claude is still holding the gun on you while Curtis and Wilford step up into the engine. Franko is practically pacing next to the door, with occasional winces from pain as the drugs work their way out of his system.

Good.

You hope it hurts like hell.

You can’t hear what Wilford is whispering to Curtis, but you can read the tension winding tight through Curtis’ entire body - tight, tight, tighter, tightest as Wilford steps away and you watch all that tension drain away as those powerful legs go out from under him.

You’re halfway out of the chair before your leg lets you know exactly what it thinks about that and you collapse back into the seat with a pained cry.

There’s noise now, coming from the other side of the massive door. Not loud enough to be distinct, but loud enough to rouse Franko and Claude. You watch the pair of them from the corner of your eye as they exchange a look that conveys more than words and Claude opens the door for Franko to slip out. It closes behind him and she returns to her post of watching you.

Wilford is just...crouched...next to the engine. Waiting. Like an ambush predator you once saw a documentary on before the freeze.

Curtis is still on his knees, shoulders shaking. That massive frame, bowed by weight, the pressure of whatever poison Wilford dripped into his ear.

You grit your teeth when you stand this time, and you manage to make it to the steps under Wilford’s amused gaze.

Asshole.

The asshole just continues to watch with that pleased little smirk as you move up the steps, until you’re standing just next to Curtis. You can’t help but feel like you’re playing into his plans, but there’s no way you can leave him there, alone.

The drop to your knees has you wincing. You have just enough time to see the tears in his eyes before your hand moves of its own accord to his face. The water makes trails through the dirt and blood and promising bruises.There’s a split second, when your hand makes contact, where those long lashes flutter and his eyes close.

And then he’s dragging you in with bone-crushing strength, hugging you tightly to his chest.

He’s crying, the kind when you’ve just hit your limit. There’s nothing for you to do but hold him back and let him get it out.

“What did-” You have to push the words out under his embrace. “He say to you, Curtis?”

“He promised…” Curtis’ voice breaks. “Everything, y/n.” He shudders again, and starts to pull away, hands swiping across his face. “Everything.”

“Curtis…”

“Isn’t this what we fought for?” He asks, looking down at you, and you can’t read the expression in his eyes. “To get to the front? To take control of the train, to change things?”

“What’s the price he’s asking for?” Wilford doesn’t strike you as the generous type. There’s a catch - there’s always a catch or a knife in the back.

“I don’t know.”

You think you might have an inkling, and it turns your insides to ice. “What, exactly, did he say, Curtis?”

“I want him to lead the train when I die.” Wilford says and you both start. For an old bastard, he’s spooky quiet. “I want humanity to survive - to have a strong leader, who can do what needs to be done to ensure it continues.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” You know it can’t possibly be this simple, and Wilford sure as hell isn’t this altruistic.

You see a flash of temper finally on that face. “I’ve dedicated my life to the engine, y/n. And it has saved us. It  _ must _ continue after I die.” His gaze turns victorious as he looks at Curtis. “And I have the power to give my successor the things he wants most.”

“You’ll be dead soon enough.” You point out as Curtis staggers back to his feet. “And then you’ll have no power at all.”

“Do you really think I did this alone?” Wilford laughs. “I have my lieutenants, just as Curtis did. It took some convincing, but they see it now. The necessity of it. They’ll enforce my will long after I’m gone. Help ease the transition of power.”

Curtis has to help you stand and for just a moment, you lean in to the warmth of him. “Y/n…”

My god, you think as you look up at that grizzled face, he’s  _ actually _ considering it.

He winces under your gaze, but doesn’t look away. And this time it’s  _ his _ hand moving over your cheek, brushing back your hair with a gentleness that should be at odds with so massive a man. “Someone has to lead, y/n. And we...we could make it better.”

Oh, he’s picked a fine time to start believing he’s a leader.

He could do it, you know that. Curtis already is a leader, has been for years despite the denial and willful blindness. A good leader, in part because he can see the cost of the difficult decisions, can see the price of the greater good and carry the weight of it.

But Wilford hasn’t told you everything - and you suspect Curtis already knows what Wilford isn’t saying, at least in part.

“What did he promise you?”

Curtis swallows, but doesn’t look away. “A future, y/n. For...you...and me. Us.”

You laugh, and it’s a tired, bitter sound. “You know that’s a joke, Curtis. The train can’t run forever, and one day the tracks will wear out, or enough resources will go extinct that we all freeze to death or starve.” Another unhappy laugh escapes you as you remember late night conversations with your mother and Gilliam, discussing the inevitable. “Unless you actually believe the rumors about the world thawing, there’s no...there’s no real future on Snowpiercer.”

You’d been on the train for eight years the first time you’d realized the futility of survival on Snowpiercer. Really realized - realized that this was the end of humanity, even if you lived to see it. It had taken you months to shake the bleakness that had settled over you.

Since then, you’d done your best to live your life according to one simple guiding light - to not hate yourself for your actions when the end would finally come. You helped, and you healed, and you hoped because you were human and because you would have gone mad without something to occupy your time and give you purpose.

But the kind of hope on Curtis’ face when he spoke of a future? 

You hadn’t had  _ that _ in years.

“Thaw?” Wilford laughs and steps back down into the main part of the car. “A kronole-dream, I assure you.”

“Y/n-” Curtis tries again and you push away from him.

“No.” You say. “It isn’t logical, Curtis. Parts will go extinct, and there’s no way to manufacture more of them.”

Wilford waves his hand dismissively. “We’ve worked that out. Years ago, in fact.”

You don’t believe it. “How?”

The facade of benevolence slips from Wilford’s face. “All in due time, y/n.”

And there it is - the price, or at least in part. Whatever it takes to replace those parts will make you balk, and Wilford doesn’t want to spell it out until you and Curtis are too far down this path to choose differently.

It has to be abhorrent, whatever it is.

There’s a hiss and the door to the car opens, even though no one has been near the console. 

Wilford jerks his head towards the door and Claude - still holding that gun - moves to investigate as noise, lots of noise, begins to spill into the car.

“Curtis,” You plead, “Curtis think about this.”

He steps closer to you, and it’s intimate as his hands cup your shoulders and he looks down at you. “Do you know why I never...Why I could never touch you, before?”

“Because you’re a self-deprecating asshole who’s emotionally repressed?” 

His laugh is watery. “No. Because I couldn’t...I couldn’t dream, in the tail-end, of a life. With you. I couldn’t afford it, because there was no future there. No point in it, when everything could be taken from me - from us - at any time.” He’s searching your face for something, and you wish you knew what. “What kind of life could I give you if we were stuck in the tail-end, y/n?”

“You-”

“Shh.” He smiles as your eyes narrow at the order. “Y/n, rebelling was the right thing to do. But that’s not...That’s not why I did it. Not really.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip and he lowers his head closer to yours.

Distantly, there are gunshots, but they might as well be on Mars. You couldn’t move if you wanted to as he presses his lips against yours and oh, sweet god, you are going to combust as he kisses you with years’ worth of repressed emotion.

It’s not just passion that moves between you - it’s  _ feeling _ pouring from him into you. It’s tenderness and soft need, edged by hard hunger, and the lazy kind of desire that makes your head spin and your pulse race.

When he pulls away, his pupils are blown, and you know yours are too as you both try to bring your ragged breathing back under control. You feel a little drunk on the lingering sensations, and your fingers are touching your lips, as if they'll find an imprint there.

“Oh my,” Wilford’s voice breaks the spell of the last few moments. You have  _ never _ wished someone dead so strongly as you do in that instant, as you glance over Curtis’ frame to see him standing there in his smoking jacket, looking eminently too pleased with himself.

But your gaze doesn’t stop there because the door is all the way open now.

And there is madness - Nam, standing on the bridge between, swinging a pipe at the horde of rioting front-enders. Rioting for what? 

Wilford turns at the look on your face, and rejoins the pair of you next to the engine as Curtis turns to see what’s drawn your eyes. “Look at them. That’s how people are. You know. You’ve seen this, you’ve been this. You can save them from themselves. This is what Gilliam saved you for.”

“Curtis,” You plead. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Curtis!” Yona runs in, hair streaming behind her. “The matches!”

And you watch with shock as he pushes her back. 

Yona’s eyes are wide as she staggers, and then her gaze falls to the floor and they widen impossibly more. She darts to the table, grabs a fork and begins prying at the panels.

You’re already moving to help her - Yetkaterina’s gate is still fresh in your mind - and a second later, so does Curtis.

It takes yours and Yona’s small fingers to pry loose an edge, and Curtis’ strength to lift it.

And the three of you gape as you look into the true machine that makes up the engine.

Timmy’s hair is shaved, and his skin covered in grease, but it’s the hollow emptiness in his eyes - watching but unseeing as his hands move robotically - that will haunt you.

“The space only allows for a very small person.” Wilford’s voice is calm as he pushes the panel shut again and stands. “Young children under five. That piece of equipment went extinct recently.” He nods to you. “This was the only viable solution.” The fucker has the gall to pour himself a drink. “Fortunately, the tail end manufactures a steady supply of children.”

Your hands have balled into fists, but Curtis is already ahead of you by strides - his first hit takes Wilford down to the floor, and the following are punctuated by his swearing. “You fucking bastard!”

You’d love to watch him beat the shit out of Wilford, but Timmy...Your hands scrabble at the panel with Yona’s while you both barely choke back sobs, and then Curtis is back, lifting it.

How do you get him out of there?

Your gaze goes around the room, and Yona scrambles to her feet.

“Find something to jam the gears.” You order and she nods, darting away quick as a sparrow.

You turn back in time to see Curtis gauging the timing, one hand curling into a fist.

He draws it back and you catch his arm with your own.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” You ask as Yona comes back with a metal pipe.

“We have to stop the gears.”

You raise your eyebrows, look at his fist, then at the pipe pointedly. “Yona, give his stupidness the pipe please. We need you to hold it - hold the gears.” You clarify. “Yona and I are smaller, we can pull Timmy out.”

He blinks, takes the pipe, and shoves it into the whirling mass of machinery.

The gears whine, but hold as the engine slowly stops.

You blow out a breath. “Timmy. Timmy, honey, we’re gonna get you out of there.” You lean in and try not to think about being crushed by the gears. “Baby, take my hand.”

“Yona, take the fire.” Curtis grunts as the gears’ whining grows louder.

Yona takes the matches and runs back to the door. 

There isn’t time to ask what that’s about.

Your hand closes on Timmy’s shoulder and the contact breaks the spell on the kid. He blinks up at you, flickers of life returning to those eyes. “Y/n?”

“That’s right, Timmy. Come on now, let’s get you out of there.”

It takes more effort than you like, but you manage to pull the kid out, tiny arms wrapped around you like a spider-monkey. As you collapse backwards, the engine gives another shuddering groan, the pipe creaks, and snaps. Curtis shuts the panel, and you force yourself to sit upright.

Timmy is holding on like he’s never going to let go, and you run your hand over his head, over his back and whisper words of comfort, promises that it’s going to be okay.

Yona and Nam come running back in, draped in fur. Nam tries to shut the door, but the controls only spark, so he turns back and tries to drag it shut for a moment before turning and running.

You stagger to your feet alongside Curtis, and Yona and her father close in. There’s a look shared between Curtis and Nam and then you, Timmy, and Yona are sandwiched between them.

There's barely a moment to wonder what the hell is going on.

The explosion sends all of you flying, and the last thing you feel are Timmy’s hands clutching at you tightly and Curtis’ chest at your back before everything snaps to blackness.


	10. Afterlife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Apparently this is where my brain wanted to be this weekend, instead of the 20-bajillion real life things I need to work on 😆
> 
> Also, playing footloose and fancy free from here on in - we officially off book now!

Curtis knows he's dead.

He has to be dead.

The explosion alone should have killed him.

But the real reason he knows he’s dead is that he’s  _ warm _ . And not the weak, flickering warm of a jacket or a fire, but really truly down to his bones warm that only comes from being in a warm environment.

He hasn’t been this warm for over half his life.

He opens his eyes and half-expects to see...well, he isn’t sure what the afterlife should look like.

He didn’t expect to see stone walls or a ceiling.

“Curtis?” Its Timmy’s voice as the boy leans over him with a quick grin. “You’re awake!”

“Ti-” He tries to speak, has to swallow around a dry throat. “Timmy. Where…”

“Oh! I’ll get y/n!” And then the boy is running, quick footfalls against stone as he rounds a corner and vanishes.

Curtis struggles for a minute and then pushes himself upright. This...room...is lit by the soft glow of a lantern, enough light to see by as he takes in his surroundings. Everything is stone.

There’s an honest-to-god mattress under him, blankets draped over him, along with his coat, which looks surprisingly clean considering the last few days.

He’s naked.

The realization has him glancing around for clothes. 

Ah, there - folded on a little outcropping next to the doorway. 

He wraps the blankets around his waist and stands, maybe a little too quickly. When the room stops spinning, he crosses it and trades the blanket for his pants and two layers of shirts. Every item of clothing has clearly been washed - and there’s even some basic mending.

The afterlife is weird is the only conclusion he can reach.

Timmy’s tiny footsteps are growing louder again, followed by another set of steps.

Timmy bolts back into the room, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s awake! See!”

You have never looked so beautiful as you follow Timmy into the room, smile soft, hair messily braided out of your face.

“Y/n…”

“Hey,” Your voice is soft, even as you step close and for a minute he pictures kissing you again. But your hands are brisk, professional, as they check him over. “How you feeling, sleeping beauty?”

“Are...are we dead?” He asks.

You laugh. “No. Though we - I - was worried about you for a while there.”

“Where are we?” His stomach growls, loudly, and Timmy joins you in laughing this time. 

“Let’s get you some food first. You’ve, ah, you’ve missed a lot.”

You lead Curtis out of the stone room, and try to calm your heartbeat.

It’s been three days since Snowpiercer stopped.

Three. Days.

Three of the longest days of your life so far - waiting to see if Curtis was going to regain consciousness or not. Three days of running herd on survivors, organizing, scavenging.

There’ll be time now. Now that he’s awake. To talk about what happened in Wilford's car.

Yona sees Curtis first, and the gasp of delight she lets out makes you smile even as she runs to Curtis and tackles him with a hug that has the breath whooshing from his lungs, even as his arms fold around her.

Gray is waiting by one of the fire pits in the main cavern, and though he’s still in a great deal of pain, he manages a one-armed hug as Yona leads you all over.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” You remind him. “As in, lying down.”

He makes a face at you and passes Curtis an opened can of beans and a strip of smoked fish.

“What is this place?” Curtis asks in between bites.

“Cave system,” You answer, pulling Timmy into your lap. “They have their own ambient temperature, so it’s pretty warm once you get out of the entrance. We found it two days ago. Us and the others. Survivors.” You clarify as Curtis’ confusion shows. “It’s...uh, it’s been a long couple of days.”

“How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

“Four.” Gray corrects. “It’s almost morning.”

“Four.” You amend, ruffling his hair. “Four days since the explosion.”

“People survived?”

“Some.” Your gut twists as you recall the carnage of the wreck. Too many dead. More injured. You’d lost over half of them in the last two days - infection setting in to breaks, trauma wounds that were beyond your ability to stop...You’d been running a bit ragged, trying to make them as comfortable as you could, but the truth? There wasn’t much you could do for them.

So you’d buried your guilt and your anxiety for Curtis in organizing the able bodied to scavenge from the wreckage, set up this cave-base, and assign scouting parties.

It hadn’t been easy.

The front-enders were slow to find their feet, and some of them were straight up useless. The tail-enders were bitter and angry. The two factions rubbed each other the wrong way two dozen times a day, and sweet merciful lord, you were this close to snapping at them for behaving like children…

“We got really lucky, Curtis.” You tell him. “We’re just in the foothills of a mountain range. Another day or two...we’d likely have just gone falling off the side of a cliff.” Your shiver has nothing to do with the cold. “Hobbes thinks Nam was right about the thaw, that we might be able to survive at the lower altitudes.” 

Yona had shared Nam’s theories with you in the long, quiet moments when you’d been tending to Curtis. How he thought the snow was melting, that there might be life after all out there.

It was a bit beyond you, which was why Hobbes had been gone for the better part of a day now with some of the greenhouse experts who had survived the crash - a survey expedition as it were - while you kept an eye on things here.

You recount the basics for Curtis, knowing the moment he stands up from this fire and starts to move around the cavern, he’s stepping back into the role of leader.

Once he eats, and drinks some of the water you’ve melted from snow, he does exactly that.

The tail-enders welcome him. 

The front-enders are more wary, but also a little in awe. All their leaders are dead, but Curtis...they know his name. Know he led the latest rebellion. And that's before you add in that quiet magnetism that draws people to him.

You check Gray’s still-healing sutures - no sign of infection, thank god - and make your own rounds as you leave Timmy happily sandwiched between Gray and Yona, yawning hugely. All three promise to go to sleep soon.

After checking on your patients, you make your way to the mouth of the cave.

The air is cold - cutting cold - and the night is dark still.

Drawing your own coat, salvaged from the wreck, closer to you, you let your eyes drift up towards the stars.

You’d forgotten what it was like to stand under an open sky.

It feels like freedom and hope and the future and the present all rolled up in one.

“You did a helluva job.” Curtis’ words make you jump, and he smiles as he joins you. “Sorry.”

“Just did what I could.”

He shakes his head. “You always do that.”

“Do what?” You stiffen as he drapes his arms around you, rests his chin on top of your head.

“Make it less. All the good you do - you try to make it less. Like it isn’t a big deal.” His warmth is seeping into you now, and you feel some of the tension from the last few days finally begin to edge away. “You’ve always done that. You’re amazing. You managed - in three days - to get them in line, working towards the common goal of survival.”

“Well,” You point out. “We haven’t survived just yet.”

“We will.” He says, with some of the old confidence. “We’ll have to watch some of the old guardsmen though. I don’t like the way they looked at you, at Gray.”

“Hobbes has been helpful there,” You admit. “He should be back soon. We should...We should probably talk. While we’re alone.”

He tenses around you, but is saved from replying as two tail-enders join you, asking questions about plans for tomorrow, and his arms drop from around you as the conversation continues.

You’re yawning when you finally make your way back inside, stopping to check on Gray and Yona and Timmy, unconscious with the other children on some of the mattresses pilfered from the front sections. Timmy is snoring, hand loosely wrapped around Yona’s in a sight that warms your heart.

“Come on,” Curtis says, pulling you after him, back towards the smaller, more private cave that has been his room for the last three days. “Unless...I mean...I don’t know where you’ve been sleeping.”

“I haven’t.” You admit, and almost trip over a stone with your next yawn. Your eyes are just so damn heavy. “It’s been catnaps mostly.”

And there’s the dark and heavy scowl you’re used to seeing on his face. “You have to take better care of yourself,” He scolds and picks you up in both arms. “You’re going to sleep for at least six hours, y/n.”

“Not gonna argue.” You rest your head against his chest, find your eyes blinking more and more slowly. “Sorry you woke up alone.”

The vibration of his chest - laughter - feels nice. “Timmy was here.”

“I meant to be.” Your confession is quiet as he lowers your legs next to the mattress. “I wanted to be.”

“You’ve been a little preoccupied.” He sheds his coat, and then yours, before bending to unlace your boots. With a gentle nudge from his shoulder, you sit back on the mattress as he gently pulls your shoes off, one at a time.

It’s domestic, and if you weren’t about to pass out under the wave of creeping exhaustion, you might be feeling your heart melt a little bit as Curtis helps you remove some of the extra layers of clothing and holding up the blankets for you to crawl under.

After a moment’s hesitation, he lays down next to you. “This okay?”

“No,” You admit and lay your head on his chest, drape one leg over his. “This? This is better.”

One of his hands combs gently through your hair. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“We should talk...” Another murderously long yawn stops you from finishing the sentence.

“Tomorrow, y/n.” He promises, pressing a soft kiss to your head. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”


	11. Coherence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, smut, smuttiness, smutty joy (so 18+ and probably NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay lovelies - thanks as always for reading, commenting, kudos-ing
> 
> Also, trying to get better at smut scenes sooooo feedback would be *super appreciated*

You wake with a furnace burning under you, loose-limbed and well rested for the first time in too long.

And then Curtis lets out a soft rumbling snore and you remember where you are.

You look up at him, face gone soft in sleep, body warm under you. Somewhere in the night, he’d pulled you more on top of him, so now you’re sprawled over his chest, legs tangled.

You take a moment to just appreciate the sight of him - those long lashes fluttering softly, no tension in that strong, stubbled jaw. Feel the warm muscle of him pressed along you…

And then you realize that, asleep or not, there’s one part of him that is  _ very _ much awake. Nudging against your inner thigh.

_ Sweet lord _ .

You remember that kiss, at the engine.

“What’re you thinking about so hard?” Curtis asks without opening his eyes, voice rough with sleep.

You try to shift off of him, but his arms come up and hold you where you are. “Just...things.”

_ That _ has him opening those blue eyes and quirking an eyebrow at you. One corner of that lush mouth curves upward with the hint of smirk that both melts and excites you. “Things?”

You know he’s perfectly aware of what you meant, but it doesn’t stop your face from flushing with heat under his gaze. “I...uh...it’s, uh...I mean…”

“Y/n,” One of his hands tips your chin up as you try to duck your head. “I guess we should have that talk?”

“Yeah.” 

Neither one of you moves.

“I woke up naked.” Based on the look on his face, that was  _ not _ the thing he had been intending to say, but Curtis pushes through. “Before. Naked. And clean.”

You wince. “Sorry. It just...didn’t seem right? To leave you bloody and dirty and...I didn’t...I didn’t take any liberties or anything, I promise.”

He’s smiling when you finish, a boyish smile you’ve seen only too few times. “Is it bad that I just wish I could have been conscious for it?”

The laugh that slips from you could be classified as a giggle, and it has him surging up underneath you to catch the sound as it falls from your lips with his own and  _ oh, that is nice. _ He pulls away and you’re not quite sure if the happy hum came from you or him.

“You could be.” You say in a breathy voice that is not quite your own. “Or I could show the hot springs.”

“Hot springs?”

It’s your turn to grin. “Oh yeah. Hot. Clean. Water.”

He shudders underneath you, and it has you laughing again, even as he shifts and turns so now you’re both lying on your sides, legs tangled. “I’d definitely like that. But…” The warmth in his gaze turns molten. “In the interest of not wasting water, we probably should get dirty first.”

You want. God, do you  _ want _ .

But your hand is resting on his chest in a gesture that stops him from leaning forward and pressing his lips to your own again, and there’s a feeling - a painful clench - that’s settled in your chest as your hormones lose the war with your conscience.

“We should probably talk first.” You blow out a slow breath and try to get a tighter grip on your own reaction as Curtis doesn’t move away. “About...this...thing.”

“Y/n…”

“No.” You shake your head at his tone. “Years, Curtis.”

He knows exactly what you’re driving at, but he still doesn’t pull back, and you feel his hands flex, as if to pull you closer. “I was an idiot.”

You snort. “Well, yeah.” Amusement fades fast though. “You got pretty good at keeping your distance, Curtis. And I...I get it. Really,” You add, seeing the shadow of disbelief flicker in those eyes. “I do. I just…It’s been a lot the last few weeks. And now we’re just...we’re alive. The world may or may not be thawing. Wilford is dead. I think,” You struggled, trying to find the words. “I think my brain just...needs a little time to catch up.”

His lips are soft on your forehead as he presses a gentle kiss there. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

He smiles. “That’s what I said.”

“Right. Right.” And yet, neither of you moves further away, and the air between you is continuing to heat. Neither one of you is looking away either, and you can tell your own gaze is moving molten as Curtis’ eyes drop to your mouth.

“We definitely should wait. For your brain.” 

You nod, hanging on the edge of the moment, fixated on those plump lips mere inches away. Your teeth bite down on the edge of your lip, and Curtis’ eyes darken.

And the distance between the two of you vanishes by unspoken mutual accord.

It’s hot and warm and electric and his hands are absolutely everywhere and it is goddamn glorious as he yanks you flush against him, dragging one thigh up over his own hip as he greedily plunders your mouth, fingers sliding up to grasp your ass as you moan.

Your own hands moved to pull him closer, clenching at his back, his shoulder as you nipped at his mouth, teasing. Felt the roll of his hips against yours and nearly lost your mind under the tidal wave of desire.

“Off.” You demanded, pulling at his shirt.

He shrugged it off without hesitation and you yanked your own overhead,  _ eager _ , so eager to feel his skin against your own that there was only a second to savor the sight of all that naked chest before he rolled over you, pinning you beneath him.

His lips moved to your jaw, down your neck. Kisses that made your head swim, blood boil, and body buck as he moved to your breasts. He laughed when you whimpered under his mouth, stubble sandpaper a hot contrast to the softness in his hands as they skimmed lower, lower…

A hot, half-second fumble from both of you as you stripped the rest of the way and then his hands were parting your folds, fingers deft and sure.

He pulled his lips from your body in awe. “Jesus, you’re so wet.”

“Curtis,” You swore as he stroked one finger into you, hands fisting in the blankets.

“Fuck, y/n.” He kept moving, thrusting with his hand, even as you clenched down as he added a second finger. “Fuck. So goddam wet and ready for me.”

He slid down lower and…

Oh.

Oh god.

You came  _ hard  _ as he thrust and twisted those long fingers into you while his mouth closed over your clit and scraped just the barest hint of teeth along your sensitive flesh. Breath ragged, back arched, saw god-herself  _ hard _ . Best orgasm you’d ever had  _ hard _ .

When your vision cleared, he was grinning up at you still between your legs, and it was the youngest you’d ever seen him look. Done over in shades of smug and aroused, looking at you with a kind of anticipation that had your heart fluttering and your body clenching around his fingers again as he continued to play with you, stroking and caressing.

“You with me again?” He asked, all naked amusement and arrogance.

You nodded, struck mute by the sight of him like this.

“Wanna take my time with you,” He admitted, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh and you shivered. “Wanna taste you and make you come over and over, and every way…” He looked back up at you as a low whimper escaped your mouth. “Another time. Need to be in you, y/n.”

You nodded. “Need it too, Curtis. Need you.”

You watched the cobalt blue of his eyes flash, bright, blinding at your words and then he was back over you, the hot hard length of his body pressing you down as you surged up to meet him, and he slipped one hand between you and…

Both of you shuddered as he slid home, foreheads pressed together, eyes fluttered shut for a moment. He was warm and Jesus, hard as steel, and you had to  _ move _ or you were going to lose what little of your mind you had left.

You rolled your hips, felt him suck in a breath and then he opened those eyes.

“If you don’t want me to embarrass mysel-”

You rolled your hips and squeezed down on him, felt all control vanish from him as the tension in that tight frame finally snapped and he started fucking into you in earnest. One hand on your hip, holding you as swore. So good, so good…

Every other word out of your mouth was ‘fuck’ ‘please’ and ‘don’t stop’ as you chased the edge of another orgasm. The pressure inside of you was building, building, and you knew your hand - wrapped around one muscled arm - was going to leave half-crescent marks as he pushed you higher, snapping his hips in jagged pace as his own release came closer.

“Gonna come,” He muttered into the curve of your neck. “Gonna come, y/n. Need you to-” A hiss between gritted teeth as you fluttered around him. “Need you to come with me, baby. Come for me.”

It was like his words flipped a switch. The orgasm ripped through you fast and without warning. Dimly, you were aware of his own fevered pace, his growl - _oh, the things that sound did to you_ \- the quick stutter of his hips as he went over the edge moments later.

And then you both lay there, panting as if you’d just run a fucking race for long moments, his larger body collapsed half-on, half-off yours. The pair of you covered in sweat and other fluids and you couldn’t string together enough coherent thought to say words.

Heaven. You'd died in the crash and this was the afterlife.

You let out a happy little hum as your lungs started to catch up again and felt his hand squeeze your hip as he slid from you.

“That was…” He groaned as he rolled onto his back, yanking you against his side. “Jesus.”

“Mhm.” Was the most you could manage.

“I can’t-” Whatever he was about to say was cut short as running footsteps intruded.

There was barely a moment for you to yank the blankets over both of you and then Timmy was rounding the corner, arms and legs pumping full tilt. “Curtis! Curtis! We’re gonna go wait for Hobbes!”

Gray was half a step behind the boy. “Timmy!”

You couldn’t help it as Timmy crashed on top of Curtis, completely oblivious to the state of you both. The laughter poured out of you as Timmy beamed at you.

“Come on,” Timmy insisted, reaching for the blankets.

“Let’s give them a minute, Tim.” Gray’s face was flushed as he did not look at either one of you. Poor baby, you thought, amused by the embarrassment pouring off of him. “Come on.”

Timmy’s happy chatter continued as Gray led him back out of the room.

You looked at Curtis.

He looked at you.

This time the laughter came from both of you.

“Guess we should get up?” You finally managed to say, knuckling away a tear or two as Curtis’ ribcage continued to shake, a fist pressed to his lips to stem the tide of sound. You wanted to bottle that sound.

“Yeah.” The reluctance in his voice had you smiling at each other again. “I think you owe me a hot spring, y/n.”

“Y/n!” The shout of alarm came from the main cave, loud enough to travel, and had you both fumbling for clothes. “Y/n, come quick!”


End file.
